The Future Before Us: Are we the echoes of our ancestors?
‘The dead are invisible; they are not absent.’
Saint Augustine of Hippo (354-430)
My first trip to Greenwich was on Fresher’s day. University was a quick choice through clearing; a rash impulsive decision that was made solely on proximity and acceptance. I left the train station and was immediately warmed by the sense of the familiar. I’d automatically turned left and soon I stood outside St Alfege Church; a solid white monster of a building that imposes outwards and forces the pavement to concede its straightness. I was compelled to go inside. It was during the following four years that I unravelled my deep connection with the area, the disruption of the dead, and how I’d been walking in my ancestor’s footsteps and sitting where they’d died without ever consciously knowing. I stumbled across a science labelled ‘epigenetics’ after a series of peculiar coincidences built up momentum. I was being unwittingly pulled to places that I had no obvious prior knowledge of, nor connection to. Hilary Mantel said: ‘We may suspect that the voices we hear are an echo of our own, and the movement we see is our own shadow. But we sense the dead have a vital force still – they have something to tell us, something we need to understand.’[1]Something urged me to delve deeper.
In nature many accept, without question, migratory patterns of the swift, swallow, and artic tern. The monarch butterfly travels from Canada to a twenty-three-acre spot in Mexico – which takes three generations to complete. Poet Robinson Jeffers wrote referring to whales: ‘How do these creatures know that spring is at hand? They remember their ancestors/ That crawled this earth.’[2]This is not taught, it is wired into their genetics. Is it inconceivable that we, as a species, also have a genetic transmission that passes knowledge through to our descendants?
Schützenberger wrote The Ancestor Syndrome(1998). In this she took a psychogenealogical approach to psychotherapy. It questions whether we have a choice in the lives we live, or are we links in a chain that have spanned generations. Are we just ‘mere links,’ with little choice, in having the events and traumas experienced by our ancestors revisit us in our own lifetime?
The New York Times reported:
Dr. Darold A. Treffert, a psychiatrist in Wisconsin, maintains a registry of about 300 “savants” who through a head injury or dementia acquired skills they never learned. Conceivably, he says, those skills, like music, mathematics, art, and calendar calculating, were buried deep in their brains. He calls it genetic memory, or “factory- installed software,” a huge reservoir of dormant knowledge that can emerge when a damaged brain rewires itself to recover from injuries.[3]
On this view there are three types of memory: episodic, semantic, and procedural. Episodic is memory of specific events, for example, a party, wedding, or a holiday. Semantic is memory of information, such as, the Queen of England is Elizabeth, or that the White House is in Washington DC. Procedural memory is how we do things, for example, how to ride a bicycle, or change a plug.
It is generally accepted that procedural memory is inherited. The more controversial area is whether semantic and episodic are. Plato, thought that souls that were not in human form were part of a Platonic heaven where they acquired universal ideas, such as justice, morality, piety. When a soul is attached to a newborn this memory is retained. Jung took the subject up in his collective unconscious studies, and Chomsky argued that humans are born with a capacity for language acquisition that puts certain constraints on what sorts of human languages are possible.
So, how are these semantic memories stored? Psychology Todaywrites:
Memories are stored in the brain in the form of neural networks in the cerebral cortex, the brain’s outer layer. The brain deposits specific proteins along the neurons’ synapses that make it more likely for the neurons to communicate in the future. This is also known as ‘long-term potentiation’. While the proteins are normally deposited as a result of learning, it is possible that some of them could be coded for by the genetic code.[4]
In Ackroyd’s Hawksmoor,[5]the detective considers how murderers and victims have a tendency to return repeatedly to similar locations as if drawn by some malevolent force.In London: The Biography, Ackroyd writes: ‘Yet perhaps it has become clear that certain activities seem to belong to certain areas, or neighbourhoods, as if time were moved or swayed by some unknown source of power.’[6]Perhaps this ‘source of power’ is lodged as little notches of ancestral memory within our own DNA. Could it be an ‘invisible loyalty’ that impels us to repeat journeys, moments of sorrow, joy, injustice, tragedy. Or perhaps, as Shützenberger suggests, ‘an echo?’ Freudian analysts Abraham and Rand state: ‘The phantom is a formation of the unconscious that has never been conscious – for good reason. It passes – in a way yet to be determined – from the parent’s unconscious to the child’s.’ So, inside us are the ghosts: the emotional imprint experienced by an unknown ancestor. Abraham and Rand continue: ‘What haunts us are not the dead, but the gaps left within by the secrets of others.’[7]
‘His last words were “can I go to rest?” The Lord gave him his wish’
Nunhead cemetery is one of the six magnificent cemeteries, and second largest, in London. It was consecrated in 1840, but in 1969 the gates were locked. It was left to go feral until the 1990s. The former fifty-two-acre cemetery and its neat lawns passed over to meadow, then to woodland. Nature reclaimed the land and all those thousands buried beneath.
I’d planned a trip to locate the graves of past grandparents, with in excess of ten ancestors resting there, it seemed like a good place to begin. Iain Sinclair wrote about T.S. Eliot’s return to East Coker, ‘The desire, as the gravity of life pulls harder towards the earth, to locate and pay homage to his ancestors. To shrug off solitude. To belong. “The future before us.” He speaks in quotation marks.’[8]
I began the route from my local village train station. It’s small; if three people are waiting – it’s busy. The platforms are flanked by arching birch and beech, and songbirds mask the traffic sounds that pass over the bridge. I talked to my mother about a relative; I called her aunt, but she is really my second cousin. She’d become a nun in the 1950s and resided in a convent in Kingstanding, Birmingham. The only other commuter at the station overheard our conversation and interrupts. ‘Sorry, but, I’m from Kingstanding. What did you want to know?’ She appeared relieved to hear her hometown 170 miles away being spoken about. She wasn’t able to answer the question I wanted to know: Is my aunt still alive? However, she knew how to get to the convent.
The word ‘Nunhead’ was painted in yellow and green under the railway bridge just as you leave the station, in case you were in any doubt where you were. It was likely named due to a pious medieval person giving the plot of land to a convent.[9]A small garden nursery had an economic use of space behind iron railings with plants that tower high on shelves to make an East London micro-forest. Outside the gate was a John Steinbeck quote: ‘In March the soft rains continue and each storm waited courteously until its predecessor sunk beneath the ground.’
I walked along the pavement adjacent to the Victorian wall that enclosed the cemetery. The tall railings were not particularly old as the originals were necessary victims of the war effort. This long stretch of road had its own weather. The sun hid behind dark clouds and the gales whipped up a spiraling solitary blue bag A sinister ambience where the only thing missing were the thunder claps.
The entrance was what I’d expected from a ‘magnificent’ London cemetery: shingle, gothic chapel, tree lined avenue. Scrape away a little dust, there was scaffolding, temporary fencing, and ‘keep out’ notices. A colony of parakeets squawked from the trees, and the notice boards informed us about the wildlife haven for woodpeckers, beetles, and other such rarities this walled sanctuary has become. I wrote one thing in my notebook: death = fecundity.
I clutched maps that had highlighted plot numbers – here lies the bones of family phantoms. The path was muddy, and served as a track for dog walkers and joggers. Only one other couple took notice of the fallen headstones, some broken apart by beech trees that had erupted out from the soil. In this game paper conquers stone. Ivy provided a leafy blanket and added colour to this otherwise winter-barren woodland. I’m not sure then what I was looking for. I’m not sure now. There were no memorials to find. All those ancestors interred here have no mark; they were buried deep with up to thirty strangers in public graves. In my 1726 Dictionary of Etymologyit states: Ancestral – Homage that has been done by one’s ancestors. Homage – is where a Man and his ancestors, have Time out of Mind held their land of the Lord and his Ancestors by homage.[10]I was there, possibly the first descendent in over a century, to remember them. I sat on a bench on the hill overlooking hundreds of graves and in the distance St Paul’s Cathedral. By my foot was one single purple crocus; the symbol of the return of spring and a reminder of the cycle of life.
On the way home I stopped by Peckham Rye. I left the train station to be greeted by the stench of urine, graffiti boards, pneumonic drills, a patter of conversation, and bolts and chains on anything that could be lifted. All Saints Church is still open for business a woman tells me as she urges me to go inside. I don’t have time today but she continues to tell me about the women’s hub, Christians Against Poverty, and the homeless soup kitchen. The sense of community flooded out from her impassioned words. I continued down a road lined with pristine flower beds, unfolding magnolia, and 19th century street lamps. A large Victorian building that is now an Adult Education Centre stood opposite The Islamic Centre. New houses nestled against the old with a sympathetic mimicry. An abandoned rubbish cage blocked the pavement and last night’s takeaway tub was discarded on a garden wall, still full, untouched. This was a story I would never be told. Then I found it. On the corner of a road was the house where my great great grandfather died. The front door was 1980s style, but the rest: ornate window frames, front wall, the stained bricks, were all in keeping with the Edwardian age. It was an end of terrace, and the tall garden wall was topped with broken glass spikes and barb wire. This was as close as I could get to a threshold that had been passed by both Alex Tyrie and his son, Richard, many times. I recalled a video from the 1970s called ‘The Trussing of the Cooper.’ It was the tradition of an apprentice cooper becoming a journeyman. They would put the youngster into a barrel, fill it with tar, feathers, grease – anything they could – then roll him along. This is what this grandfather, his father. his son, son-in-law, brothers, uncles, and friends would have experienced. This would have been in Greenwich.
‘Tempore ultimur “We use time”’
Greenwich haunts me. It is like a thread ties me there: unfinished business, an errand, something to discover. It is like a past relationship; I am greatly fond of it, but it fills me with melancholy. I don’t know why but “Greenwich” has been a relentless mood throughout my years of study there. There is something uncanny about Greenwich.
Freud said, ‘the archaic heritage of human beings comprises not only dispositions but also subject matter – memory-traces – of the experience of earlier generations.’[11]I learnt after graduating that two of my past grandfathers, Josiah Mabert and Garrick Daly, lived and died in the buildings I studied in. They were Greenwich pensioners; old and injured men of the sea who were then interred in the grounds only to be dug up and moved later on. Also, impoverished, a grandmother, Mary Ann Daly, had been admitted to the Greenwich Hospital School as a child; and Edward, father of Josiah, ran the Black Lyon Inn and stables which was near the park until it was destroyed during the blitz. This web woven by the past had drawn me in. Different strands of the family all stopped here. Was I tapping into residual memories, the ‘invisible loyalty,’ that Schützenberger wrote about? I’d recently stumbled upon a quote from Freud concerning the names of his children; ‘I had insisted on their names being chosen, not according to fashion of the moment, but in memory of people I’d been fond of.’[12]It reminded me of when I questioned my mother on my own given names. She couldn’t answer anything other than she’d liked them; she had no knowledge of the ancestry. My name is absent throughout. The closest is Josiah and Joseph. However, Josiah’s wife, Susannah, shares my middle name. My mother had unknowingly joined up my 5th great grandparents to form a variation of mine. In addition, Joseph married Sarah, which is my sister’s name. Freud continued; ‘The names made the children into revenants.’
‘They that go down to the sea in ships that do business in great waters’
East Greenwich Pleasaunce is a public park on the north-side of the railway line between Westcombe Park and Maze Hill. It’s hidden in the middle of a housing estate; nestled deep within Victorian bricks, iron railings, and pleached trees. There was nothing outwardly remarkable about this small plot of land. On the day I visited it was overcast, damp, and the deciduous flora still barren from a winter’s sleep. Perhaps it was the weather, but there was something oppressive in the atmosphere. It could have been the knowledge that, in 1847, over 3000 skeletons had been scooped up from the nearby naval college, now the university, and reinterred under my feet. That was what my impression was – unsettled.
Through the gates there was a large white plaque decorated with red paper poppies. Behind where I stood, naval men, many of which served in the Battle of Trafalgar, now rested in a mass grave. Other than a few aged twisted trees and worm-seeking blackbirds, it was an empty green. At the far side of the park were gravestones that belonged to those from the Greenwich Hospital, widows, and other servicemen. Moss and lichen carpeted the stones, while daffodils and lungwort flourished around the edges. Dunnocks, barely distinguishable from the blown brown leaves, flitted amongst the mahonia and holly bushes. The park was near silent, only an abundance of enthusiastic birdsong was audible.
My 5th great-grandfather, Josiah Mabert, was the Commander of The Greenwich, a sloop that took passengers and goods to The Netherlands. Only a few weeks ago I’d handled letters written by Josiah dated 1750. They pertained to a sailing for The Order of the Green Cloth in which he had requested to borrow and subsequently return an anchor from Sheerness docks. The handwriting and eloquence of the letter was far separated from Garrick Daly, my 4th great-grandfather from a slightly different linage. His marriage certificate was marked with two X’s, and most his children were born, and shortly after died, in the Lambeth workhouse. Both became Greenwich Pensioners, and now both were buried together in this soil. Their only difference was class; one was a commander and later a purser, the other an able-seaman who’d served on five different ships which included HMS Ceres, Defiance, Ardent, and Asia. The latter saw him injured and retired from the Navy.
A guide book states the park has annual community events which include a summer festival with live music; if the dead were not disturbed enough, they seem to be doing their best to keep them awake. However, these were the Greenwich pensioners. They were dressed in traditional dark blue frock coats and tricorn hats, their ages ranged from twelve to ninety, and were issued with two quarts of beer a day which was brewed in the hospital’s brewhouse. Being drunken and disorderly did have its penalties, a pensioner would have to wear a bright yellow jacket, but with eighty-eight other pubs within easy reach there was extra entertainment for the bored men. It was only in 1860 that the hospital built ‘Skittle Alley’ in order the keep them out of trouble. Ackroyd said;
We are beginning to realise that there are other enchanted areas of London which remain visible and powerful to anyone who cares to look for them … the enchantment is one of place and time; it is as if an area can create patterns of interest, or patterns of habitation, so that the same kinds of activity … seem to emerge from the same small territory.[13]
A music festival on top of their mass grave somehow seems to befit their unrested spirits.
‘What hope we have as an anchor of the soul both sure and steadfast’
The Painted Hall in grounds of what is now the university has recently reopened after a lengthy and expensive restoration project. It had initially served as a dining room for the pensioners, but as James Thornhill began to decorate the walls and ceiling, the powers above pushed the rowdy sailors down into the basement. The artistry is akin to the rooms in the Palace of Versailles: ethereal, symbolic, and pure propaganda. They depict the British Empire being strong, honest, virtuous, and great; royalty is prominent and are depicted as near gods amongst the deities. Whatever our modern thoughts, the hall is breathtaking in its beauty. It was also where thousands came to pay their respects to Lord Nelson who laid in state for three-days. A plaque at the far end of the hall commemorates where he was put on show.
I’d not attended my graduation for several reasons, but the overwhelming unease of the venue, the chapel, had persuaded me to not to go. Almost a year later, I visited. I recalled the tall ornate pulpit, the gold, a score of young schoolchildren, and an uncomfortable silence. I barely got past the threshold before I chose to descend back down the marble steps and take in some fresh air. I wondered if this could be a kind of engram – something more psychological rather than physiological. The psychoanalyst Fanita English stated that one passes a ‘hot potato’ from one generation to another to be rid of it, like a closed system.[14]In this belief, a trauma, a secret, or a problem is passed onto another. It’s a transmittance to a scapegoat or a victim in order to get rid of their own destructive script. Perhaps this slate hasn’t been cleared, and the debt is still to be paid – something in this ‘invisible loyalty’ needs to be uncovered otherwise I will be impelled to repeat this moment of sorrow? As, according to Roman Law, ‘The dead pass down to the living.’
‘The living can assist the imagination of the dead’
St Alfege Passage is one of the few surviving cobbled lanes in Greenwich. Originally called Church Passage, it is accessed through a pillared entrance within a high brick-built boundary wall. It connects St Alfege Church to the park which, in 1803, became an overflow graveyard. In 1889 it was converted into a recreational ground and contains various mature trees, herbaceous plants, and benches. Rows of gravestones line the periphery; others stacked like books that serve as bereft monuments to the dead.
St Alfege was the first of Hawksmoor’s churches and the design is an expression of English Baroque style. In Hawksmoor’s obituary it states; ‘he was a skilful Mathematician, Geographer, and Geometrician …perfectly skill’d in the History of Architecture, and could give an exact Account of all famous buildings, both Ancient and Modern, in every part of the world.’[15]The church dominates this end of Greenwich until the eyes are coaxed away by Cutty Sark’s masts. St Alfege himself was the first Archbishop of Canterbury to be murdered, trumping the more famous Thomas Beckett to the title. It was the Norse who held him to ransom, and when the money wasn’t forthcoming, they murdered him with an axe. The church suffered during the Blitz; much of the original interior was restored as close to the original condition, however, inside there is a sense of modernity. My ancestors who were baptised, married, and had funerals in this Parish would have experienced the 1718 version of St Alfege. Josiah was at sea when his six-month-old eponymous son was buried in the graveyard. It had been Susannah who endured this alone. Almost no names on the eroded lichen covered stones were readable in the yard, but somewhere in the grounds the pair are buried. Another of their sons, Richard, had become Lieutenant Colonel in the East India Company and served out in Bombay. I’d searched the Burney Newspaper Collection and the tale of him being attacked by pirates at sea was a prominent story for a while; Richard’s survival was only on the account of his ability to swim. Josiah too suffered the loss of his sloop during a storm just off the coast of the Netherlands in 1756. He vanished from the records for a decade, then re-emerged as a purser at Greenwich docks.
Several years ago I’d got a tattoo of a Norse sigil which was for protection when crossing the sea. It since has served to heighten my fear of flying, however, I’d inherited a love of being on a large expanse of open water. Singer-Songwriter Amanda Palmer sang; ‘I cannot run from my family, they are hiding inside of me.’[16]I wonder too if the ‘inherited’ depression that has passed through each generation and out through numerous branches is a ‘phantom’ that just snowballs until the descendants cease. There is no escape from this family.
‘Nothing for myself that is not also for others’
My 3rd great-grandfather, Joseph Feÿ was a bread baker from Oldenburg in Germany. One day I’ll visit his birthplace, however, on 25th March 1854 and aged 19, he arrived in London. For over a decade he and his growing family lived at the notorious Falcon Court: ‘a horrible rookery of tumble-down, dirty hovels.’[17]Unbeknown to me, I’d visited its location a few weeks ago whilst on a ‘Goddess Tour of London.’ There was no mention of the slum, however, after the tour ended and en route to an after-tour pub thirst-quencher, we stopped briefly at the site of what I later realised was Falcon Court.
It’s only a short walk from London Bridge Station and just off the lorry-laden Borough High Street. Once full of alehouses and brothels to occupy merchants and travellers, the High Street is one of the oldest in the capital. The George Inn still exists, now owned by the National Trust, it is the last galleried public house in Britain. Allegedly Dickens drank in there, and it even gets a mention in Little Dorrit. The road was noisy: motorbikes, articulated lorries, angry pedestrians, buses; there was nothing that appealed to me apart from the exit: Redcross Street.
It was like someone had switched the sound off; only a passing train on the overhead bridge reassured me. Almost immediately the monochrome Boot and Floggerpub was in sight. It’s unique as it’s the only premises in the United Kingdom that can sell wine without a license. The owner, John Davy, trades as a ‘Free Vintner’ being a Freeman of the Vintner’s Company. It is a special dissension confirmed by James I in 1611. The public house claims that the right to sell wine without a license dates back to a charter of 1567 granted by Queen Elizabeth I. This unique pub had an intriguing view; opposite the building is a vibrant memorial.
The railing around the Cross Bones Garden was covered in ribbons, photos, and small mementos of loved ones. It had become a symbol of remembrance to those who have been forgotten. The original cemetery was for the Winchester Geese – the prostitutes that the Bishop of Winchester ‘owned.’ These women were not allowed to be buried in consecrated ground therefore were laid to rest near here – until a railway company wanted to dig up the land for development. Inside the garden there were numerous understated memorials dedicated to paupers, children, and those who committed suicide: the outcasts of society. Since 2004, on every 23rd of the month, a vigil is held outside the gates.
Joseph died in 1913, and was quickly deleted from family history due to his nationality. My mother recalls her grandfather talking ill of Germans in the family, despite his own mother being half-German. It was during a time when it was best to keep your foreign roots quiet. Joseph’s legacy fell into obscurity until I’d rooted around into the family history.
Across the road was the Redcross garden: ‘take nothing away but memories.’ There were tulips, ornamental grasses, and a pond with a water feature. People sat in silence – this was a sanctuary. Inside the gates were houses that were funded by Octavia Hill – a blue plaque was attached to a wall: Social reformer. Established this garden, hall, and cottages, and pioneered Army Cadets 1887-90. She’d also co-founded the National Trust. This garden was intended to be ‘an open-air sitting room for the tired people of Southwark.’[18] This was a reminder of what became of Falcon Court.
In 1889, the medical officer for Southwark put forward the plan to clear a slum area near Borough High Street, in particular around Birdcage Alley and Falcon Court. The area had a notorious reputation for crime and prostitution, and the death rate was high.[19]It was deemed unfit to be rebuilt on, so the residents were moved into newly built social housing elsewhere. What stands there now is a children’s playground and the road was renamed ‘Little Dorrit Way’ as a nod to Charles Dickens who had moved to Southwark in 1824.
The road had several high rise social housing flats; the balconies heavy with potted plants, dirty parasols, and a flaccid and faded St Georges flag; the 1960s style architecture appeared dour beside their Victorian neighbours. All of this was in in the shadow of the glass monsters: The Shard, ‘The Gherkin’, ‘The Lady-shave.’ These relics of great wealth tower over Southwark – the London home of the Victorian working classes in their thousands. While the Cross Bones Graveyard serves as a reminder of the forgotten, these buildings across the river act as an ever present portent for the powerful.
Joseph and his wife, Sarah, moved to Buckenham Square as the slum was cleared. The road no longer exists, but it’s near All Saints Church on the Old Kent Road – another road that has great significance in the family: births, deaths, work, schools, all in the 20th century. In 1911, the Feÿ’s last census record recorded them as ‘infirmed’ and ‘imbecile’ respectively. Both in their 70s, poor, and alone; they died within a few months of each other.
As I came to the end of this research I received a letter from a Sister at the convent in Kingstanding. She sent a copy of the last photo of my aunt and her funeral programme. My question had been answered. She’d died in 2016, and her next of kin was informed – however – for whatever reason, they did not pass the news to anyone else. The following day a parcel arrived. Inside were photos, a clock, her rosary, and other small trinkets. The last note left by my aunt read: ‘Make your home in me, as I make mine in you (John 15:4).’
Robert Musil wrote in The Man Without Qualities: ‘Without a doubt, individuals have to be already an architecture in themselves if the whole they compose is not to be an absurd caricature.’[20]If we are bound up in ancestral transmissions and repetitions generation after generation, then it’s down to us to address them and find our own identity in order to break through the ancestor syndrome. It would seem identity is forged by history belonging to the individual and to the family which is connected via historical context. Plato described how souls lose their memory of everything before being born. The forgetting of former knowledge is what allows us to live in the here and now; it delivers us from the weight of the past[21]The question remains, is it forgotten, or is it encrypted? Are we just palimpsests, partially erased to make way for another? I have spent many years in the footsteps of my past family with a sense of the uncanny, some of which I’ve not mentioned: Greenwich, Argyle, Chatham docks, St Thomas’ Hospital. Is our past, our ancestors, our collective memories, tied up within us which influence our lives and draws us to certain locations? I continue to untangle the phantoms. Although I have concluded, through experience and research – the dead do pass down to the living.
#ancestors #family #genes #ghosts #london #victorian #edwardian #essay #ancestorsyndrome
Bibliography
An Universal Etymological English Dictionary. 3rd ed. London: N Bailey, 1726.
Ackroyd, Peter. Hawksmoor. London: Penguin Street Art, 2010
Ackroyd, Peter William Blake: A Spiritual Radical The Collection. London: Vintage, 1996.
Brogaard, Berit D.M.Sci. Ph.D, “Remembering Things From Before You Were Born,” Psychology Today. https://www.psychologytoday.com/gb/blog/the-superhuman-mind/201302/remembering-things-you-were-born
Carvajal,Doreen. “In Andalusia, on the Trail of Inherited Memories,”The New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/2012/08/21/science/in-andalusia-searching-for-inherited-memories.html.
English, Fanita. “Episcript and the Hot Potato Game.” TA Bulletin VIII. (October 1969).
Freud, Sigmund. “Moses and Monotheism” (1939), The Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud.London: Hogarth Press, 1953, Vol. 13.
Freud, Sigmund. The Interpretation of Dreams (1900), in The Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud. London: The Hogarth Press, 1953, Vol. 5.
Haycock, Sophie. “London’s Borough: daring architecture and hidden historical gems.” The Financial Times.2016. https://www.ft.com/content/d15496f8-ba08-11e5-b151-8e15c9a029fb.
History of Nunhead.Ideal Homes: A History of South-East London. http://www.ideal-homes.org.uk/southwark/assets/histories/nunhead.
Jeffers, Robinson.“Ocean,” Selected Poems. New York: Carcanet Press, 1987.
London Parks and Garden Trusts, A Walk Through Southwark. (21st January 2010). http://www.londongardenstrust.org/guides/site.php?tour=Southwark&stage=1.00.
Mantel, Hilary. “Why I became a historical novelist,” The Guardian.(3rd June 2017). https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/jun/03/hilary-mantel-why-i-became-a-historical-novelist.
Palmer, Amanda. “Runs in the Family,” Who Killed Amanda Palmer.Seattle: Roadrunner., 2008.
Plato,The Republic of Plato, trans. Francis MacDonald Cornford, New York and London: Oxford University Press. 1941.
Schützenberger, A. The Ancestor Syndrome.UK: Routledge, 1998.
Sinclair, Iain. Edge of the Orison. In the traces of John Clare’s ‘Journey Out of Essex. London: Hamish Hamilton 2005.
Sinclair, Iain. Lud Heat & Suicide Bridge. London: Vintage, 1999.
Stilwell, Martin. Early LCC Housing – 12: Falcon Court. (2015). http://www.socialhousinghistory.uk/wp/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/Early_LCC_Housing_Part_3_12-Falcon_Court.pdf.
[1]Hilary Mantel, “Why I became a historical novelist,” The Guardian.(3rd June 2017). https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/jun/03/hilary-mantel-why-i-became-a-historical-novelist. (Accessed: 15 March 2019).
[3]DoreenCarvajal,“In Andalusia, on the Trail of Inherited Memories,”The New York Times. (17 August 2012). https://www.nytimes.com/2012/08/21/science/in-andalusia-searching-for-inherited-memories.html. (Accessed: 28 Feb 2019).
[4]Berit Brogaard D.M.Sci. Ph.D., “Remembering Things From Before You Were Born,” Psychology Today.(24 Feb. 2013). https://www.psychologytoday.com/gb/blog/the-superhuman-mind/201302/remembering-things-you-were-born(Accessed 28 Feb 2019).
[7]Nicolas Abraham & Nicholas Rand. “Notes on the Phantom: A Complement to Freud’s Metapsychology” (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987). http://www.lamarre-mediaken.com/Site/EAST_493_files/Abraham%20Notes%20on%20the%20Phantom.pdf. (Accessed 15th March 2019), 287
[8]Iain Sinclair. Edge of the Orison. In the traces of John Clare’s ‘Journey Out of Essex, (London: Hamish Hamilton 2005), 16.
[9]History of Nunhead.Ideal Homes: A History of South-East London. http://www.ideal-homes.org.uk/southwark/assets/histories/nunhead(Accessed: 15th March 2019).
[11]Sigmund Freud. “Moses and Monotheism” (1939), The Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud.(London: Hogarth Press, 1953), Vol. 13, 157-158.
[12]Sigmund Freud. The Interpretation of Dreams (1900), in The Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud (London: The Hogarth Press, 1953), Vol. 5, 487.
[17]London Parks and Garden Trusts, A Walk Through Southwark. 21st January 2010. http://www.londongardenstrust.org/guides/site.php?tour=Southwark&stage=1.00. (Accessed 1st April 2019).
[18]Sophie Haycock. “London’s Borough: daring architecture and hidden historical gems.” The Financial Times.2016. https://www.ft.com/content/d15496f8-ba08-11e5-b151-8e15c9a029fb. (Accessed: 17th April 2019).
[19]Martin Stilwell. Early LCC Housing – 12: Falcon Court. 2015. http://www.socialhousinghistory.uk/wp/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/Early_LCC_Housing_Part_3_12-Falcon_Court.pdf. (Accessed 15th April 2019).
Pook and the Palimpsest 
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